Deal with the Devil
by Lindri Night
Summary: The evil stepmother of Snow White is always portrayed as characterless, shallow and vain. These diluted accounts say nothing of the true character. But she had a much better reason to kill Snow White than Disney would have us believe. Please R
1. Noelani

Firstly, I believe I should inform you that my version of Snow White comes from the movie done by the company Goodtimes, not Disney. As for a disclaimer, what can I say? I own very little. The much-changed characters of the queen, the mirror, and the prince, as well as their names… that's pretty much it. The character of Satan I got from Washington Irving's _The Devil and Tom Walker_. 

**Chapter One:**

**Noelani**

Noelani Gheur ran through the trees, over vines and rocks, heart pounding frantically to keep oxygen flowing to her tired legs. Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and it took all of her willpower to keep going. The adrenaline of her flight had long since passed, but the taunting laughter remained, forcing her farther and farther into the foreboding forest. Their cruel faces were burned into her vision, and she saw nothing else—not the twisted trees, nor the dark shadows that moved beyond them. The beautiful maples and innocent aspens of the forest's edge were not to be seen here, replaced by grotesque, misshapen limbs and dead undergrowth. Only the faintest glimmer of light passed through the thicket of branches overhead.

Unable to see, her foot caught on a particularly jagged rock and she fell into the merciless embrace of a cluster of thorny bushes. Crying out in pain, she wrenched herself free and continued to run. Blood flowed freely from her arms and face, making her monstrous features even more frightening. Her nose was distorted and hooked; her eyes were a stone-grey, and there was a white cast in one of them. Her cheekbones were indiscernible for the rough crags and disgusting twists of her skin. Her blackened teeth were grievously misaligned, and always visible due to the permanent sneer that shaped her lips. And this was just her face—the rest of her sad body echoed the horrors above it. Her left leg was shorter than the other, impairing her walk and giving her the appearance of a hunchback. Her hands were knobby and strained with lines; they matched the crow's feet around her eyes, which were clearly visible—though she was only seventeen years old.

It would be not long before her poor body gave out under the strain. She collapsed against a tree, gasping for air and shaking violently as her sweat-soaked clothes absorbed the cold of the night air. The tears had long since ceased to come, but she continued to sob. By now the pain had lessened—though not the hatred—and she began to worry. How would she survive out here? At least at home she had a roof over her head, as miserable as the townsfolk made her life. This forest was rumored to be evil; many unfortunate souls had ventured into its depths and never returned. Their screams could be heard, sometimes, late at night…

There was a howl in the distance, and the crunch of footsteps in the brittle undergrowth. Fear crept over her, and she looked around uncertainly to see if wolves or evil demons were lurking in the shadows. "Hello?" she ventured hesitantly. "Is anyone there?"

And, to her horror, she heard a voice in her ear reply, "Do not fear, Miss Gheur—they attack only at my command."

She screamed in fright and jerked away, now able to see what had spoken. A great black man, leaning against the same tree that she had been. His skin was not negro or one of the savages of the east, but swarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair that stood out from his head in all directions, and he bore a behemoth axe on his shoulder with practiced ease. His eyes were a brilliant scarlet, burning brightly in the dim light as no flame ever could.

"Who are you?" cried Noelani, shrinking away from him.

"Oh," he replied calmly, "I go by various names. The Norsemen call me Loki; the Egyptians call me Set. In this neighborhood I am known as Satan."

"Then—then you're _him_!"

He raised an amused eyebrow.

"You own this forest," she babbled on, "and the names of those who have struck a deal with you are carved into the trees—" She cut off and looked about, searching for such a tree.

"There's one just there," remarked Satan, gesturing with his axe.

She turned in the direction he had pointed. There was a great tree a short distance away. Its exterior was fair and flourishing, but the core was entirely rotten. It had nearly been hewn through with the blade of an axe, and looked as though the first decent gust of wind would blow it over. Its bark was scored deep with the name "Crowninshield". There was an obscenely wealthy man in a nearby village with that name, whispered to have acquired his fortune through pirating.

"He's just ready for burning!" said the Devil, with a growl of triumph. "I'll have a good stock of firewood for the winter." She did not reply, and he continued, "He desired wealth, my dear girl—enough to strike a deal with me to get it. My forest is filled with names because of the insane drive for affluence and material possessions that affects so many men. But that is not what you desire, is it, Noelani?" His smile was kind and understanding, but there was something sinister about his eyes that changed it to a look of insatiable hunger. "You want nothing more—and nothing less—than to be beautiful."

"Yes," she replied uncertainly. But she raised a hand to her ghastly face, and her resolve strengthened. "Yes—to be the most beautiful woman in all the realm!" She straightened as much as her twisted back would allow, hatred setting her limbs afire with foreign strength and power. "I want people to look at me and be ashamed of their own visage, as I was! I want them to cower before me, to beg my forgiveness, and fight for the honor of serving me!" Her eyes blazed with these enthralling dreams, and for a moment she was lost in the promise of her powerful words. But, inevitably, reality set back in, and her uneven shoulders sagged with its weight. "But why do I bother to think such things? They are taunting dreams that can never be."

"No?"

It was just one word, but it promised so much…

"Could you—could you make me beautiful?" she breathed. The chilling cold had been forgotten, along with any fear she had felt.

His answer was a condescending laugh, and a portentous wave of his axe. Noelani felt her left leg grow, and her spine straighten; the cast in her eye disappeared, and her irises turned a beguiling dusky green; her face smoothed and reshaped itself, with arching eyebrows and sharp cheekbones. Her hair was now a golden russet, long and gleaming, without the snarls and dirt that it had held a moment ago. In wonder she examined her new body.

Satan was watching her with mild amusement, seeming rather pleased with himself at the beautiful thing he had created. "Do we have a deal?" he asked finally.

She froze in the middle of stroking her gorgeous hair. She knew very well what the price was. She hesitated.

He shrugged, and began to walk away. "Very well."

With horror she felt the beauty leaving her body. Her skin withered, and the fresh kinks in her spine forced her to her knees in agony. She was more gruesome and misshapen than ever, and the fear of being left so hideous filled her shriveled heart. "Wait, please! Yes, yes! We have a deal!"

His smile was not so much triumphant as it was amused. "Very well then. But remember—you will only be beautiful as long as you are the most beautiful woman in the realm, just as you said. If, at any time, someone bests you—then you lose it forever."

She nodded, and instantly pain hit her and bore her to the ground. The blood boiled in her veins, and her insides writhed like frenzied serpents, frantic to escape. Her throat ceased to function, but she continued to scream silently. Then the agony overcame her, and she fell into unconsciousness. The last thing she remembered was the Prince of Darkness, standing over her, laughing…


	2. Ravenne

**Chapter Two:**

**Ravenne**

Six months passed. With Satan's guidance, Noelani quickly learned all the intricacies of treachery, flirtation, and coercion. She thought it was particularly nice of him, as it had not been a part of their deal. But when she brought it up, he said beauty was useless unless you knew how to use it—and desire for her beauty would gain him many more names carved into trees. Though this decimated her rather ignorant assumption that he was aiding her because he liked her, she just shrugged it away. She still thought she was getting the better end of the bargain. The people in her village had always told her that she was too monstrous to have a soul. And if that were true, she wouldn't have anything to fear after death, then, would she?

Satan even saw fit to give her a new name. Noelani meant, ironically, "beautiful one from Heaven"—a name that did not suit her before, and most definitely did not suit her now. She had been christened Ravenne, which fit her mesmeric demeanor and merciless heart perfectly.

She had set her sights on the queen's throne, to which lofty goal Satan applauded her. "What better way to have the world bow down to you?" he chuckled. She supposed that fit perfectly into his plans as well—if she were queen of Sancerre, then many more people would know of her unmatchable beauty. She wasn't quite sure why anyone would want to compete with the queen—and that was fortunate. If she had known the reason, she might have had second thoughts about their deal. By the time she discovered it, her heart had been reduced to the hardness of iron—and she, in turn, applauded him for his horrendous scheming.

Despite his generous tutelage, the Prince of Darkness refused to help her poison the queen. "I've done more than I agreed, have I not?"

"Well, yes," she had reluctantly conceded, "but—"

"And what better way to see if you're ready to handle the position of a queen, than to kill a queen without arousing suspicion?"

He had her there. So Ravenne sat down, and began to scheme.

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"Please, Toby? Please?"

"No," the boy said firmly. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get into for something like that?"

Ravenne stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him, clinging to him for a long, tantalizing moment before releasing him. He was a repulsive boy, gangly and covered with pimples. But he was also one of the boys who carried food to the king's table, which made him somewhat bearable. If there was anything to be enjoyed in this experience, it was savoring the unrivaled beauty that allowed her to manipulate him in such a manner.

"Of course," she agreed, nodding gravely. "And what better way to show me that you care about me?" Fortunately he wasn't intelligent enough to wonder why she so desperately wanted to see the palace kitchens. She supposed he thought she actually wanted to see where he labored all day. Pathetic.

"But—"

She kissed him again, and the battle was won.

"Oh, alright," he conceded.

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Two weeks later the news swept across the land that Queen Lillian had died of a fever. The illness had been so gradual that no one became suspicious; the queen had always been weak—any little sickness could have managed it. Ravenne congratulated herself for a job well done.

She got herself invited to the funeral as a "distant cousin", and replaced herself as the king's wife within a month. King Wendellan had been, of course, overcome with grief, but he wanted the best for his subjects. She had easily convinced him that the best thing for the people was for him to remarry. He was a simple, trusting soul, and it was ridiculously easy to manipulate him. Unfortunately the queen had had a child a few months before she died, and Ravenne had to use a lot of cunning to replace the worthless brat in the king's affections. It did not work as well as she had hoped, but at least—for the moment—the child was too young to interfere with her plans. Everything about the child irritated her—her pale, perfect skin, her shining ebony hair, even her pathetic innocence. Even the girl's name annoyed Ravenne—what kind of a name was "Snow White"? It sounded like a color of fabric, or maybe a brand of cauliflower. But of course, she didn't say that to Wendellan. The fool loved his little Snow White.

For the first few months of their marriage she did little, only too happy to bask in royal luxury and forget that she ever had any troubles beyond deciding what dress she would wear that day. Her ambition was far from satiated, but the sudden reversal of her fortunes was quite enough for a while. But the combination of two seemingly insignificant events brought back the terrible hunger.

The first happened during her fourth month in the palace. She had been redecorating Queen Lillian's chambers—Wendellan had been terribly reluctant to let the memory of his first wife fade so soon—when she began talking to one of the men helping her remove Lillian's dressers. She had been somewhat amused by the man's devotion to his wife, to whom he had been married for two months. So she had allowed him to ramble on about her; she was kind, she was loving, she was perfect. But then he said something not quite so amusing:

"My Angelique is so beautiful, my lady—more beautiful than anythin' I've ever seen my whole life. Her bright blue eyes, and her fair, perfect skin…. Why, she's more beautiful than you, even!"

He must have seen the flare of hatred in Ravenne's eyes, because he stammered, "Uh—that is, my lady, she's _almost _as beautiful as you. Almost. Please, I'm so sorry—"

"That—that's fine," she forced herself to say, curbing her violent anger before it overwhelmed her. "I'm sure your love for her clouded your judgment." This statement was more to reassure herself than him, but it did little good; a spark of jealousy had been fanned into a writhing flame within the hollow of her stony heart.

"Yes, yes, my lady. I'm sure that was it."

She dismissed him and sat down on the bed, overcome. She had forgotten all about the stipulation of her deal with Satan—that she would only be beautiful for as long as she was the _most_ beautiful. And this girl could destroy everything.

"Calm," she told herself, taking a deep breath. "Be calm. This is nothing you can't handle. If the girl was more beautiful than you, you'd know it." She felt a horrible sensation sweep through her as she remembered what it felt like to be Noelani Gheur. Pushing it aside, she continued, "Just have the girl's looks ruined. Then there won't be any danger."

But there would be. If one peasant girl could challenge her beauty, others might as well. She needed a plan, and nothing was coming to mind. If only Wendellan wasn't around, she could do whatever she wanted—but he _was_ around, and so she had to watch her step. The sooner she could dispose of him, the better. But Satan—whom she had seen very little of since she had become queen—had cautioned her that the death of both beloved monarchs within the same year was sure to arouse suspicion.

She sighed; there was nothing to be done in her current situation. If she were the absolute monarch she so greatly desired to be, she could require all the girls in her kingdom to come to the palace for inspection—and any threats could be easily dispelled. But that would have to wait. For now, she decided, she would deal with the immediate threat first, and then think about a more long-term plan.

A week later, a recently-married girl named Angelique was found drowned in a morass on the edge of the forest.

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The second event was quite opposite from the first. Angelique had reminded Ravenne of a terrible problem that had to be remedied as soon as possible. And her answer—the second event—had occurred as if in answer to her plea. She had been touring the dungeons to decide if they needed renovation. She had been appalled to learn that the king had never kept more than two prisoners down there in all of his reign, and that they had been treated as if they were distinguished guests. The king's lack of stomach for anything even remotely concerning the unhappiness of one of his subjects disgusted Ravenne beyond belief.

She had discovered that there was a magic mirror locked in one of the dungeons. It was over nine feet in length, and gilded with gold finer than any in the palace treasury. Her curiosity aroused, she immediately found Wendellan and asked him about it.

A cloud came over his cheerful features. "That Mirror is evil," he informed her darkly. "My grandfather foolishly purchased it from a hag, who told him that it gave the owner the power to scry."

"Scry for what?" Ravenne pressed.

"Anything. You could ask it any question in the world and receive a truthful answer."

She smiled beguilingly. "What better tool could there be for ruling a kingdom, my love? Please say I can have it."

His eyes widened, and he drew away from her. "Ravenne, the poor soul imprisoned in that mirror deserves better than to be used as a tool."

It hadn't occured to Ravenne to feel sorry for whatever it was trapped in the Mirror. It certainly wouldn't hurt the creature to answer a question or two—he was trapped in there anyway. And it would be foolish beyond reason to waste such a powerful tool! But that argument would never work with her weak, sentimental husband. "But it's so beautiful," she pleaded, fluttering her beguiling eyes as if she were about to cry. "Please, I promise I won't use it—I just want to decorate my bedroom with it. Please?"

"No," he told her firmly.

She turned away, pretending to cry. It was a fairly simple trick to bring tears to her eyes; and she knew Wendellan couldn't resist tears.

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Ravenne had the Mirror placed in her private rooms, where she could use it without anyone overhearing. Worry constantly ate at her that one day someone would be more beautiful than her, and she would lose everything. So several times a day she would go to the Mirror and ask the same question:

"Magic Mirror, tell me do; tell your mistress, tell her true—answer me, obey my call: who's the loveliest of all?"

And, to her relief every time, the Mirror would reply,

"The answer, queen, is crystal clear—  
You are most lovely far and near."

But, within a few years, she could see lines appearing around her eyes, and her skin started to fade from its immaculate white back into the blotchy color it had once been. At first she had been able to convince herself that it was her imagination—after all, the Mirror still said that she was the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. But finally, she was able to fool herself no longer. There were definitely lines in her face, and wrinkles around her eyebrows from so much worrying.

"Satan!" she called out angrily, throwing a mirror to the floor in rage. It shattered into a thousand pieces and scattered about the room, but she didn't care. "You promised me!"

"Whatever seems to be the matter, Ravenne?"

She whirled around to see the Devil himself lounging on her bed, marring the pillows and quilts with ash from the fires of Hell. This, along with his unconcerned demeanor, only added to her fury. "We had a deal!"

"Yes," he agreed, "we did. And?"

"_And_, you're not holding up your end of the bargain!" she hissed, long fingernails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists. "Look at me! I'm turning back into Noelani Gheur, the disgusting creature that was hated and laughed at!"

He did not seem moved. "I never promised to maintain your beauty, my dear. You should have specified that—I would have done it, even though it's quite exhausting to sustain such a heavy façade for so long."

Despair overcame her rage, and Ravenne fell to her knees among the fragments of glass. "What can I do?" she wailed, clawing at the scarred face and stone-colored eyes she knew so well.

"Stop that," he said sharply, sitting up. "You're making it worse. I'll repair your face this once, but don't expect me to do it again. You'll have to maintain it yourself—I have other things occupying my time besides you, you know."

It didn't hurt this time; though perhaps she was simply too relieved to notice it. She didn't bother to thank him; she was too worried. "But how? How can I keep myself beautiful?"

He wasn't listening to her, examining the Mirror that stood in the corner of the room. There was a savage grin of delight on his face. "Eranthis, I haven't seen you for a few thousand years! How have you been?"

The Mirror flashed an angry scarlet color and replied,

"Though I'm certain you already know,  
To be trapped here forever is a fatal blow.  
The priests deemed it worthy of my sin—  
Placed a curse on me and tortured my kin."

Satan laughed and inquired of Ravenne, "Does he always have to rhyme like that?"

"I think so," she said hesitantly. "Did he make a deal with you, too?"

"Yes, quite a long time ago. He was foolish enough to get caught, and the town elders were a damned righteous lot—they despised me. So they cursed him to this." He gestured towards the Mirror. "Now, if you don't mind, I have other things to attend to." He bowed to her, and disappeared in a flash of hellfire.

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Several weeks later, Ravenne had still not discovered the key to immortal beauty, though it was not for lack of trying. She had almost bankrupted the royal treasury on potions and oils, and finally the king had reprimanded her. That had been the most infuriating thing of all—that spineless cretin had actually admonished her! When she had continued to spend money in secret, he ordered her confined to her chambers. Though it was not a major inconvenience—she rarely left her rooms anyway—it was insulting to her that she, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, was being ordered around.

Other than that, life was pure delight. She had as many servants as she wished, and closets and closets of gowns and jewelry. The Mirror assured her that she was still beautiful, though in a rather bored and resentful voice, and she felt confident that she would discover the secret to beauty any day. Unfortunately the Mirror was not helpful in that respect, as his reply was merely,

"Use the beauty of others, false queen,  
And your beauty shall stay the fairest to be seen."

The part about the false queen had annoyed her greatly, for she _was_ a queen—though her methods _had_ perhaps been a trifle objectionable. It was also quite irritating that the Mirror seemed to be purposely making things difficult for her. Maybe she should have tried making friends with it. But there was nothing she could do about it now; it took all of her patience just trying to remain civil to the king, and the Mirror already hated her anyway.

While Ravenne was thinking these dark thoughts, she was seated in front of a vanity, gazing into the depths of her gorgeous reflection. Her skin was a perfect alabaster white, without a single blemish or scar; her eyes were dark and seductive, lined with long lashes and perfect make-up; her hair was usually piled high atop her head and fell in cascading ringlets or coiled in a braid, but at the moment it was down and unstyled, as she had a maid was brushing through it.

The maid accidentally yanked on a tangle too hard, and a pain flashed in her head. With a snarl of fury, Ravenne turned and slapped the girl across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor. "You stupid little fool!" she hissed, rising from her chair. She would have hit the girl again, but there was a smear of blood marring the immaculate lily-white. Grabbing a towel, she wiped the blood away. To her amazement, the skin that the blood had touched was whiter and purer than the rest of her hand.

"That's it," she breathed, admiring the perfect skin. "You were right," she shot at the Mirror. "The beauty of others—it makes sense now." But where would she get blood—enough blood to bathe in?

The maid whimpered, and Ravenne glanced at her thoughtfully.


	3. Sixteen Years Later

**Chapter Three:**

**Sixteen Years Later**

Within two years of their marriage, the good king had died in a war in a faraway land. Ravenne, of course, did not shed a single tear—now she didn't have to worry about keeping her activities a secret. The day she received news of his death, she got rid of the modest twin thrones in the main throne room and commissioned a new one of spectacular ostentation and even more spectacular cost. She spent most of her time in the throne room, which she had lined with mirrors, and the Mirror itself moved to the far end of the room, that she might assure herself of her continued beauty without the inconvenience of all those stairs. She increased the taxes of the kingdom tenfold, using the money on clothes and on potions to supplement her beauty. She also hired maids at an alarming rate, killing the pretty ones the day after their arrival and draining their blood into large glass jars. The homelier ones were valuable as well, to keep the palace fit for a Queen of such magnificence and beauty.

She had quickly discarded the method of killing her victims; it was wasteful, she had discovered, and it was getting more difficult to find maidens of sufficient beauty. She had used several children, hoping that their cherubic appearances would suffice; but she did not wish to look childish, so she only used them when hard-pressed.

Her current method was much better, and she prided herself on having been the one to think of it. The girl's veins would be cut, and the blood drained out, leaving just enough for her to survive. Then she would be given a space in the dungeons and plenty of food and care, that she might survive to be "milked" again. This method worked well, for the most part, though the subjects died eventually. Sometimes their appearances grew so haggard that Ravenne ordered them to be done away with—she had no desire to look like a walking corpse.

She had convicts do the bloody work—ones that she had saved from beheading and paid well to ensure their loyalty. She was far too busy to attend to such matters herself, and these men were for the most part sadists and seemed to enjoy themselves. She didn't care what they did to the girls, as long as they were still alive and reasonably good-looking. Once every month she bathed in a basin of blood, and her great beauty grew and grew. She was no longer just the most beautiful woman in the kingdom—she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She knew this for a fact, because the mirror had told her so, albeit reluctantly.

This coveted title was also due to the constant attention of her closest henchmen, who kept tabs on growing beauties and put an end to the ones that could possibly threaten her own status as the most beautiful. She made sure to cover every inch of herself in their blood.

The king's child, Snow White, was now sixteen years old. She was a very innocent, good-natured girl, and spent her days doing innocent things and staying out of the Queen's way. Incredibly, it seemed that she had no notion of the maids and serving wenches who were disappearing from the kingdom, nor by what method her step-mother was preserving her ravishing beauty. She was very pretty little girl, and Ravenne anxiously awaited the princess's seventeenth birthday, when she had decided to bathe herself in the girl's blood. But it had to be done delicately—the kingdom loved their princess very much, and might rebel if they suspected anything unnatural about her death.

But something happened two weeks before Snow White's birthday that would change everything.

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Eranthis stared through the prison of the Mirror, out at the throne room, in a jaded state of semi-consciousness. He had been trapped there for two and a half thousand years, and had seen everything life could possibly offer—and he was abominably sick of it all. Before he had made a pact with the Devil, he had feared death; but now, it was the one thing he longed for. Even the fires of Hell would be a relief from this torment.

Everything he said he was forced to say in rhyme—it was part of the curse. Those faeries had thought they were so clever—he had been a minstrel originally, and had prided himself in his great ability to rhyme. Now it was just a misery. It limited his choice of sentences dramatically, and it sounded ridiculous to speak in couplets all of the time.

He had once been the most revered balladeer in all of Etheria, the kingdom of the faeries. Not even their great magicks could come up with the same glorious style, the same silvery metres and rhymes that he could invent without so much as a thought. That had annoyed some of the more snobbish faeries very much, because he was merely a naiad—a water sprite. Which was the reason why, when he had fallen in love with one of the faerie princesses, he had seen fit to make a pact with Satan. No faerie—especially a royal one—would lower themselves to the level of a naiad.

His curse had never been used for the purposes of good; it was always the corrupted, ambitious people that got hold of the fabled "Mirror of Truth". And it was a loathsome thing to answer the questions of a tyrant who would use the answers to further his evil designs.

At least Ravenne lacked that sort of ambition. All she cared about was being beautiful and living like a Queen. If she had wanted it, she could have conquered the world with the Mirror and the magical powers—limited as they were—she had been able to gain from the local warlocks. Satan refused to help her in that respect; he had said flatly that if she wanted magic, someone would have to offer him their soul in return. Her argument that magic would help maintain her beauty had no effect.

On the other hand, it was absolutely abhorrent to have to tell her twenty times a day that yes, she was still the most beautiful woman in the realm. By human standards, that is. He was gifted with enough power to see through the glamour the Prince of Darkness had placed on her, and could clearly see her ugliness. It had grown worse over the last sixteen years—as her heart shriveled and twisted and her soul filled with conceit and jealousy, her true appearance became more and more hideous.

The only tolerable thing about Ravenne was her step-daughter, Snow White. The girl was kindhearted and gentle, and her soul was so bright and perfect that even Eranthis had to shield his eyes when she entered the throne room. It wasn't right, he knew, to enjoy the brightness and glory of her good soul after intentionally damning his own, but it was the only tolerable thing in his miserable existence.

It was during one such moment of observation of the princess that he realized something wonderful.

Snow White was more beautiful than Ravenne.

_Finally, it has come! _he thought to himself gleefully (In his own mind, thankfully, he was not forced to rhyme). _Someone lovelier than Ravenne—and that evil pretender will finally get what she's deserved these sixteen years! _For the first time in the history of his curse, he was actually looking forward to answering a question.

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"Magic Mirror, tell me do; tell your mistress, tell her true—answer me, obey my call: who's the loveliest of all?"

Eranthis grinned and leaned against the glass, observing Ravenne awaiting the usual reply. He had spent the last hour thinking up a suitable reply. Normally he wouldn't have cared if his metre was off or if the rhyme was imperfect—but this was different. He took a breath and began,

"Her skin's as pure as a brand-new snow;  
Her eyes set people's hearts aglow.  
Lips red as blood, hair black as night:  
The loveliest is… _fair_ _Snow White_."

Ravenne gasped and stumbled back, dark olive eyes wide and aghast. "What?" she cried, her calm demeanor shattered. Her voice, normally so musical and light, was harsh and cold. "How can this be?! _I_ am the most beautiful woman in the land! I always have been, and I always shall be!" Her eyes were now narrowed, and there were uncharacteristic lines of hatred marring the perfection of her face. "Treacherous Mirror, how dare you say Snow White is lovelier than I?!"

Eranthis actually laughed aloud, something he hadn't done since he had been banished to the Mirror. He conceded wryly,

"Your loveliness is great, tis true,  
But there _is_ one more fair than you.  
For Snow White's beauty does begin  
Where yours does stop—tis from within."

Ravenne gaped at him for a moment, too horror-struck to speak. She forced her face to return to its usual blank state, fearing wrinkles even in her anger. When she finally did speak, it was directed at a cringing servant in the doorway. "Send me my royal huntsman, immediately!"

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"So you understand what it is that I want you to do, my loyal huntsman?" Ravenne asked calmly, examining her reflection in a handmirror. She was still as beautiful as ever. More so, even, since she had absorbed the beauty of that miller's daughter from Ghent. How could a pathetic little girl like Snow White ever have bested her?

But why waste time thinking about it? She needed to fix the problem before Satan discovered it and took away her beauty. By this time she was much more composed than she had been earlier, and had decided that it was not as big a problem as she had originally thought. So she killed the girl two weeks early—that was no inconvenience. And then she would bathe in the girl's blood, and her place as the loveliest woman in the realm would be even more assured.

"But your Highness—" the huntsman started, from his place kneeling at the foot of her throne.

"I asked you a simple question," she said sharply. "_Do you understand?" _Normally she wouldn't send a huntsman to do anything this vital, but she needed to keep the people of her kingdom from growing suspicious about Snow White's unfortunate demise. If she sent Snow White into the forest with one of her convicts, someone might start to wonder. Better to use someone that everyone respected. There were threats of rebellion as it was, and everyone loved the girl—it might just send them over the edge. Only if it occurred as an accident could this be achieved without reprisal.

"Yes, your Highness," the man replied. "I understand."

"Good. Because if for some reason you should fail, then tonight I shall be dining upon _head_ of huntsman. Do I make myself clear?" _That wouldn't very conducive to my health_, she thought dispassionately. It made a very good threat, however.

The huntsman bowed, fighting to remain calm. "Yes, your Highness."

"Then we understand one another. Now _go!_" She threw the handmirror with an imperious flick of her wrist. The huntsman barely stumbled back in time, and fled the room. Ravenne admired her beautiful reflection in the shards of glass, and a wicked laugh escaped her lips.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The huntsman watched Snow White happily frolicking among the trees and flowers, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. The Queen had bid him slay her and make it seem like an accident, then bring her body back to be drained of blood. The whole idea was so revolting that it was all he could do to keep from retching. But if he didn't obey, then he would undoubtedly be tortured unto death—and the Queen would just find someone else who wouldn't have a problem with disposing of the girl.

Snow White giggled happily and twirled around, causing her white dress to twist and flare in the afternoon sun. She held a haphazard bouquet of wildflowers, which bounced and leapt with her movements. "What a beautiful, glorious day! Have you ever seen such a lovely, sun-shiny day, huntsman?"

"Even the sunniest of days can have its dark clouds, princess," he said sadly, thinking of the task he must go through with.

"Oh, huntsman, don't be so glum!" she reprimanded playfully. "You are beginning to sound just like my step-mother." She sighed, her inherent happiness momentarily subdued as she contemplated the Queen. "I wish there were a way to make her happy."

"You would not be so anxious to make the Queen happy if you knew why she sent us here," he muttered.

Snow White did not hear him, having moved closer to the stream to run her fingers through the cool water. "I know, let's pick some wild berries for my step-mother! Perhaps that will please her."

The huntsman drew a dagger and advanced until he was within striking distance, steeling himself for the blow. At the last moment, Snow White turned and saw him. She gasped. "Huntsman, what are you doing?!"

And those wide eyes broke his resolve. He threw the dagger into the stream, crying, "I cannot do it!"

"Huntsman? What is it?" she asked in bewilderment.

"Run, princess," he cried, "run for your life!"

Snow White did not move. "My life? What are you talking about?"

"The Queen—she is jealous of your beauty! She has ordered me to slay you!"

The sweet princess was astonished. "Slay me?"

"Your stepmother would do anything to see you dead!" _How could she not know this?_

"She wishes me dead…? I cannot believe this—surely you are mistaken!"

"There is no mistake!" he snarled, gripping her shoulder. "You must flee! Run—far as you can, go!"

"But what about you? If you disobey the Queen—"

"Run, I say!"

Still she did not move. Every moment that she delayed was a moment closer to death! "I shall never forget you, huntsman."

"Nor I you, princess," he said sorrowfully. "Now quickly, you must go! And never return!"

The princess finally obeyed, turning and running deep into the forest.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The bright, sun-shiny part of the forest that Snow White had enjoyed picking flowers in soon gave way to darkness. The trees were rotten and evil-looking, with twisted branches that grabbed at her dress and tore at her hair. Mist veiled everything from her waist down, and she stumbled over many unseen rocks and crags in the earth. Unbeknownst to Snow White, this was Satan's part of the forest.

She was a simple creature, and there was only room for one thought in her mind: _"Run, princess, run for your life!" _So she tugged her dress free of the ensnaring branches and concentrated on making her legs go faster. But her dress-shoes were not made for running, just as her willowy limbs and were not suited for anything more strenuous than climbing the palace stairs. Though her heart was pounding and her ephemeral stamina had long since run out, she dared not stop.

It grew darker still. Evil eyes peered at her from the shadows, and the trees grabbed for her with increasing ferocity. Though her original fear—fear of the Queen—was still there, it was quickly losing ground to fear of the forest. She had heard terrible stories about this part of the wood, and the creatures that lurked there. Her imagination conjured up terrifying images of ghouls and trolls, terrorizing her until she screamed aloud.

Then she heard it—coarse, savage laughter, booming through the trees. It was the most horrible sound she'd ever heard. But there was something alluring about it; something that made her feel warm and fearless, and for a frightening moment her mind filled with absolute disdain for humanity and for the good Lord, and delight in the thought of all that was sadistic and terrible.

But in her delirium, Snow White collided with a tree. Stumbling back, she saw with horror that it seemed to have eyes and a cruel, open mouth that revealed monstrous, jagged teeth. The fear returned and cleared the strange clouds in her mind. She ran on, crying and praying that she would reach the end of the forest in one piece.

She dared not stop, though she felt as if her heart was about to implode from the terrible strain. There was light ahead, and she raced for it, running, running—

The poor girl ran straight into something; at first she thought it was another tree, but with a shock she felt it move against her. With a cry she jerked away from it, but it grabbed hold of her shoulders. "Whoa, whoa there!" it exclaimed.

They were in a lighter part of the forest now, but Snow White was frightened and did not care. She did not notice the man's appearance, so busy was she trying to escape from him. He was a handsome man, with dark, shoulder-length hair, twinkling eyes, and a mischievous smile. His clothes were simple enough, but if she had looked more closely she would have seen that they were the best money could buy. He had dropped his bow when she collided with him.

"Wait a minute, miss," he said with a charming smile. "You are the most lovely creature this forest has ever seen."

_It must be the Devil_, she thought feverishly. _Who else would be in this forest?_ "Let me go!" she screamed, trying to wrench her shoulders free.

He held on easily. "Who are you?" he asked kindly. "What are you afraid of? Let me help you, please!"

But she continued to fight, and he released her. She immediately ran off, in a different direction from the way she had come.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Prince Gwydion stared after her for a moment, dumbstruck, before calling to his men, "After her! I must know who she is!" His servants, Hans and Stephen, obediently set off after the girl. He knelt to retrieve his bow, shaking his head to clear it. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; with her innocent, hazel eyes and lustrous raven hair…. He had been warned that, this close to Satan's forest, he might run into some malicious creature masquerading as something beautiful and alluring. But she had been much too frightened to be truly evil.

After a few minutes, the two men returned. "Sire, she has disappeared from sight," Hans reported, straightening his askew tunic.

"Tis true, sire," Stephen agreed wearily. "Perhaps she was a witch, or a gnome."

Gwydion shook his head vehemently. "No—no one with a face like hers could be a witch or a gnome." Decisively he mounted his horse. "I swear by all that I hold sacred I shall find that girl, no matter how long it takes—and if I am lucky enough, she will become my princess."


	4. The Dwarves

The names of the dwarves—I didn't choose them. I wanted to at least keep that part accurate, in reference to the Goodtimes movie. So I know they're weird…

**Chapter Four:**

**The Dwarves**

Snow White kept to the lighter part of the forest, running at a measured pace more acceptable to her protesting body. The fear had lessened by now, and she was starting to worry about other things, foremost of which being how she was going to survive out in the woods. She didn't know how to hunt, or fish, or build a shelter—in short, she didn't know the first thing about survival. She could cook reasonably well, but only when ingredients and recipes were provided for her. Perhaps if she just kept on going, she would reach the edge of the forest, and a town of some kind.

So preoccupied was she with these thoughts that she did not notice the cottage until she had practically reached its front door. It was pragmatically built, with a professional looking thatched roof and solid brick walls. Though it had obviously been made to be sturdy, it had a certain charming quality that soothed her frazzled nerves.

She approached the door, hoping fervently that the owners would allow her to stay long enough to catch her breath, and perhaps give her something to eat. It was a practical wood door, held together by plain iron bands as well as untarnished nails. Raising a weary hand, she knocked. "Hello?" she called. "Is anyone at home?" There was no answer. She went to the window, and peered inside. She couldn't see anyone, so she returned to the door. "Hello, can anyone hear me?" Still no answer. She pulled back the latch and cautiously opened it. "I said, is there anybody here?"

There was no one inside, but it seemed that someone had been very recently: the bowls of soup on the table had faint tendrils of steam rising from them. There was a plain, wooden table in middle of the room, lined with miniature chairs. There was a fireplace on the one wall, and a small room opposite it filled with beds. As she walked into the main room, she realized that the table was half as high as a normal one would be, as were the chairs and the beds. _This must be a house for children, _she realized. She counted the chairs; there were seven. It never occurred to her to wonder why seven little children were living alone in the woods.

The table was covered with delicious-looking food—breads, fruit, soup…. It was all simple, much unlike the elaborate banquets held in the palace. But her stomach complained just the same, after enduring so long without sustenance. "Surely they won't mind if I take a little something," she said to herself, taking a piece of the bread and devouring it. It was wonderful. She then sampled some of the fruits, soup, and a slice of meat, surprised at how good it all was.

"What nice little children must live here," she said thoughtfully, feeling weariness spread over her body. As she lay down across three of the little beds, she murmured, "I must try and stay awake… long enough… to thank them for their kindness to me…."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Even if Snow White _had_ wondered how seven children could survive on their own in the middle of a forest, she never would have guessed at the truth. In fact, this house did not belong to children at all—but to dwarves. And as such, it was no great surprise that the house was empty; the dwarves spent all day in their mines. Contrary to popular thought, it was not diamonds and rubies that they mined, but more practical things, like iron and copper. They didn't enjoy carting their ores and metals to town, of course, but it was a necessary evil. They were self-sufficient for the most part, but wheat to make bread and cloth for their garments they had to get from town. But of course, Snow White knew none of this.

As she lay asleep on the dwarves' beds, she was completely oblivious to the fact that one of these dwarves, Robin by name, had just entered the cottage. It was his turn to return from the mines early and fix supper for the seven brothers. He didn't enjoy it—a pickaxe was a much easier tool to wield than a chef's spoon, in his opinion—but he didn't complain, as some of his brothers did. What was the point? _Someone _had to cook the food, and it _was_ only once a week. He had been out chopping wood for the fire; Tadpole had neglected to refill the wood pile. Fortunately there had been enough to get supper finished, but that didn't make Robin any less annoyed with his brother. It seemed to him that, to live harmoniously and self-sufficiently, everyone had to pull his own weight.

In fact, Tadpole had been shirking quite a bit lately. _When he gets home_, Robin decided, _I'll—_

He never finished the thought. He had just noticed that his chair was a full foot away from the table. But that was impossible. He couldn't stand having anything out of place. There was no way…. Cautiously he pushed the chair in, wondering what was going on. Maybe there was a spirit in the house. Or a goblin. Usually the creatures from Satan's part of the forest didn't come this far north. Oh, if only his pickaxe were here instead of back at the mine!

Though a knife would do little good against a spirit, Robin was about to start towards the cupboard to fetch one when the door opened behind him.

"What did you fix us?" asked Sunbeam cheerily, striding into the room.

Toadstool filed in after him. "I hope it's not squirrel again—that was a really bad idea, Robin—"

"Quiet!" cried Robin in consternation. "There's something in here!"

Cricket laughed, but Hedgehog folded his arms, looking predictably pragmatic. "Nice try, Robin. We're not falling for that one. If you fixed squirrel again, just tell us, don't try to—"

"No!" Robin interrupted angrily. "_There's something in here_—look, someone's been sitting in my chair!"

"That's ridiculous," Toadstool said rationally, making his way to the table. "Why, I've never heard anything so—" He suddenly cut off. "There's a bite taken out of my bread! Robin, why'd you—"

"I didn't do it!" yelled the accused dwarf, frustrated beyond belief.

Cricket, frowning, walked over to the table. He lifted a half-eaten cluster of grapes from his plate, then turned to Robin. "You hate grapes," he murmured, mystified; his eyes narrowed slightly, the subsequent shadow darkening their smoky hazel to an obscure brown.

The remaining dwarves started towards their respective places at the table, and one by one noticed unexplainable anomalies.

"Someone's been eating my soup!" declared Fawn.

"And drinking out of my glass!" Toadstool added loudly.

"_And sleeping in my bed!"_

Everyone whirled to look at Tadpole, who had walked over to the bedroom. The previous commotion had instantly turned to fearful silence. Hesitantly they approached the doorway, glancing at each other for a plan. "Do you think it's one of Satan's beasts?" Robin whispered.

"Give me that," Fawn ordered, gesturing to Robin's knife.

His brother was shaking too badly to effectively hand him the makeshift weapon. "You're going in there? Don't you remember that monster three years ago that—"

Fawn, ignoring him, took the knife and started towards the bedroom. He was the tallest of the brothers by almost two inches, and predictably the bravest. It was he that, three years ago, had killed the troll that had attacked them in the mines. Though it had been much larger than he, it had still been relatively small—what if this was something worse?

As he approached the sheet-enshrouded creature, his brothers crowded in the doorway, not sure if they should help or not. Tadpole, disgusted by their unsurety, grabbed a knife and pushed through to stand by Fawn. Sunbeam did the same.

Fawn smiled grimly. "On three?"

Tadpole nodded, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"One," began Fawn, doing his best not to seem afraid.

"It covers three beds!" whimpered Robin. The others ignored him.

Fawn raised his knife, poised above the mysterious mass. "Two." Tadpole's hand quivered slightly, but he forced it steady.

"Three!" yelled Fawn, and he whipped the covers into the air. His blade flashed downwards, ready to—

It was a girl.

A beautiful girl.

"Who is she?" whispered Sunbeam, his gaze somewhere betwixt bewilderment and enchantment. Her hair was long and trailed far over the beds, with a sheen of beryline blue shimmering on its perfect black, reminiscent of a raven's wings. Such a pure, unblemished whiteness of skin the dwarves had never seen—it was as if she had powdered her face in alabaster. But there was not a trace of makeup on her perfect features. Indeed, something so vain and ostentatious would have ruined her enchanting innocence.

Fawn frowned. "How did she get here?" Though all the dwarves—except perhaps Tadpole—were captivated by her beauty, he was still practical enough to overcome it.

"Isn't she beautiful?" sighed Robin, drawing closer.

"Yes," Hedgehog agreed hesitantly, "but what's she doing here?"

Fawn glared at him, pointedly setting his knife onto a dresser. "It's just a girl," he protested.

"Shhhh," warned Cricket, "you'll wake her!"

Tadpole was somewhat less enthralled than his brothers. What did it matter that she was pretty? That was how Satan performed his slyest evils—in the guise of something good. And even if she wasn't evil, she was trespassing! As his brothers continued to stare at the girl, he shouted, "Why should I be quiet?! She's the one that let herself into our house!"

"Tadpole, be—"

"_I will NOT be quiet!"_ he yelled, stomping a powerful—but nevertheless puerile—foot that sent vibrations through the wood floor.

Despite this furious statement, he immediately fell silent as the girl opened her eyes.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Snow White slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes. She must have fallen asleep; the children were home, judging from the noise. As she realized what had awakened her, she became uncharacteristically annoyed. It was very nice of the children to have let her come in and rest, but shouting was completely uncalled for. "Don't you know that it's rude to wake someone up by yelling?" she admonished firmly, shaking a reprimanding finger. It was for their own good—all children needed to be brought up to be polite, and so far, their actions had most certainly not been.

One of the children—who looked oddly old, now that Snow White thought about it—folded his arms. "No."

"No way," said another. He was short enough to be a child, but that beard….

Why, they weren't children at all! But then, what were they? Before Snow White could determine just what they were, another one spoke.

"You think you can sit there—_on_ _my bed_—and lecture _us _about manners?"

As Snow White turned to look at the one who had spoken, the other children—or whatever they were—chorused in agreement. He was about half as tall as she was, and wore a diminutive tunic and a pair of well-worn breeches. His hands were grimy, and so were his sleeves; his beard was jet black and somewhat more untidy than the others' were. There was no way he could be a child, as Snow White had thought. From his deep voice and mature features, it was clear that he was much older than she. What could he be?

The Queen had never bothered to have Snow White formally taught, so all she had to go on was what she had picked up from the palace servants. The cook had always enjoyed telling her unbelievable stories about the forests beyond the castle, filled with demons and faeries and—of course! They were dwarves!

Oblivious of her sudden discovery, the one that had said "no" to her lecture about yelling asked, "Who are you, anyway?" He was slightly better looking than the one whose bed she was sitting on; they all looked fairly similar, but this one had a kindlier look about him. His eyes were a grayish hazel, the same color as the rest of the dwarves', but somehow they held a more compassionate light.

"Oh," said Snow White, "yes—we haven't been properly introduced. Only improperly awakened," she added to the one who had so rudely shouted. "My name is Snow White."

The dwarves looked at one another, clearly confused. "True you are a bit pale, my dear," said tall one with an especially deep voice, who was standing closest to her, "but what's you name?"

"Snow White _is _my name."

"Snow White," one mused. "Kind of an unusual name, isn't it?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I've never really thought about it." She didn't know all that many people, as the Queen had never allowed her to leave the palace. After a moment of silence, she added, "May I inquire as to your names?"

"I'm Sunbeam," said the kindly-looking one. His decision to speak first made Snow White decide he was the leader of the group.

"Toadstool," another one said.

The deep-voiced one said, "My name is Fawn."

"You can call me Hedgehog."

"Robin."

"Cricket."

"My name is Tadpole, and you are _still_ sitting on my bed!"

Snow White, unused to being so rudely addressed, jumped up immediately. "I'm sorry. I am pleased to meet all of you." She curtsied elegantly, more out of respect for etiquette than anything else.

The dwarves all voiced various polite replies, removing their hats and bowing to her. Tadpole was visibly late, and Snow White could hear him muttering, "Yeah, well…"

Maybe they were civilized after all. The servants at the palace may not have been schooled in courtly manners, but they had the courtesy to address her in a civil manner. It was nice to see that people outside the palace were the same way. In fact, she thought they were—

"Well, little Miss Rainy Day," Tadpole sneered, "have you ever heard of a thing called 'trespassing'?"

_Maybe they aren't so nice_, she thought regretfully. "It's 'Snow White'," she corrected him, offended. She had made the effort to remember his name (though she couldn't quite keep the rest straight; Tadpole was easy to remember because he was so rude) so why couldn't he extend her the same courtesy? "And yes, I have heard of it. I'm so sorry, but I knocked and knocked and nobody answered, and the door was open so I came inside. And I guess I just… fell asleep."

"On _my_ bed."

"I said I was sorry! I was so tired from running," she explained, starting to cry, "and I had no place else to go. "I had to get as far away from the Queen as I could, and—" Voicing these statements made them suddenly much more real to her, and the reality that the Queen was out to kill her, and that she _had _no place to go…. She broke off, sobbing disconsolately into her hands.

"There, there," said the one with the deep-voice, patting her arm reassuringly—Fawn, was his name?—"don't cry." Another dwarf fished around in a drawer of the bureau and handed her what appeared to be a rag. It took her a moment to realize that it was it was being offered in lieu of a handkerchief, which she supposed they wouldn't have much use for. She accepted it gratefully.

"Why are you running from the Queen?" inquired one. "Not that you need an excuse, mind you."

Apparently the dwarves _had_ heard of the Queen. "She is my stepmother," Snow White explained, drying her eyes.

"That's no reason to run away," protested Fawn. "I can understand that you might not get along all of the time, but still, that is no reason to run away."

"He's right," agreed Moonbeam. No, that wasn't it. What was his name…? Sunbeam—yes, it must have been Sunbeam. "You must go home. The Queen may not be the nicest person, but I'm sure she's worried about you."

Snow White shook her head, starting to cry again. "But you don't understand—she wishes me dead!"

"_Dead_?!" exclaimed three dwarves at the same time. The others seemed just as appalled, but somehow they didn't seem surprised.

"Yes, I'm afraid it's true. The royal huntsman says it's because she is jealous."

"Well," said Sunbeam, "I can't say I'm terribly surprised—the Queen is a very vain and evil woman. Every time we go to town—which is fortunately seldom—we have to hear at least one person talking about her latest atrocities. Though I'm certain that the gossip has been grossly exaggerated, the basis must be true. All the stories speak of how she cannot stand for anything to be more beautiful than she is."

"Which you definitely are," added Robin.

Snow White smiled. "Why, thank you."

"There was one story," continued Sunbeam, "about a girl in a village somewhere near the palace who everyone declared was the most beautiful girl the world had ever seen. They crowned her 'Queen of the Rose,' or something like that. Three days after the celebration, the girl disappeared. For a long while no one knew what had happened to her, but six months later, a neighbor found one of her earrings in the mire behind the palace, where all the garbage is dumped."

Snow White was horrified. "And—and you think that the Queen—"

"I remember one story," Fawn told her, waving away her exclamation, "about how a maid, on her first day in the palace, got lost and found herself in a dungeon. And down there were twenty girls, all with perfect lines of scars on their arms and legs, each an inch apart—"

"The maid ran away," Toadstool cut in, earning a glare from Fawn, "and hid in the town where we sell the ore we mine—"

"We're miners," Cricket explained to Snow White.

"—which is how we found out about her story," Toadstool finished. "That is, before the Queen had her silenced."

Snow White shuddered. The dwarves continued discussing the Queen, but she was too horrified to pay any more attention. What other horrible things would she learn? To take her mind off of her stepmother—whom she had previously thought only good things of—she studied the various dwarves. Tadpole was leaning against a dresser. He was the only one of the dwarves to have lines across his face indicative of a perpetual frown. The current scowl on his face clearly one of disgust. Well, that was alright; in time, she'd show him that she was a person worth liking.

Cricket—at least, she _thought _that was his name—was standing to the right of Tadpole, seeming to be the most jovial of the lot. In fact, he didn't seem to be taking anything seriously, even the quite sobering conversation about the Queen. He just listened amicably, munching on a cluster of grapes he'd brought from the other room. As another dwarf related a tale concerning the daughter of a miller up in Ghent, Cricket noticed Snow White looking at him and winked affably. She smiled back; he would be very easy to get along with, if the dwarves allowed her to stay.

This brought a terrible thought to mind—what if the dwarves wouldn't let her stay? She shuddered; what horrors awaited her in the forest? "Where will I go?" she wondered sadly, hoping beyond hope that they would offer her a place with them.

The dwarves fell silent, all talk of the Queen suddenly seeming irrelevant in comparison to the issue at hand. "Why," Hedgehog said, surprised, "you can stay with—"

"Are you going to include the rest of us in making that decision?" demanded Tadpole.

"Oh—yes," stumbled the dwarf. "Snow White, would you be kind enough to excuse us for a moment?"

"Of course," she replied immediately.

The dwarves left the room, and Snow White could hear them talking—albeit quietly—all at once. For the most part she could not distinguish what they were saying, although she did hear Tadpole's voice muttering, "Ah, I don't know…."

Snow White tried not to listen, thinking that it would be unforgivably rude. They would tell her their decision. But what if they didn't let her stay…?

The dwarves filed back in, led by a smiling Sunbeam. "You can stay with us!"

"Here? Really?" exclaimed Snow White, overjoyed.

"For as long as you like," assured Fawn. "We'll protect you from that—that—" Sunbeam elbowed him, none too gently, effectively silencing his potential profanity.

"Still," Tadpole protested, "I don't know, brothers. We don't have much extra room around here."

"Oh, please," begged Snow White, jumping to her feet. "I would love to stay here with you! I won't take up much room; and in return I can cook for you and clean the house and mend your clothes and—"

Tadpole interrupted, eyes narrowed. "Hang on, hold it! If you're a princess, like you say you are, how come you know how to cook and clean and sew?"

"The Queen didn't allow me to have any servants," she shrugged.

The rude dwarf considered her thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, fine then," he conceded at last. "You can stay—for a little while, at least. But," he added, eyeing the wrinkled sheets of his bed, "you'll have to find someplace else to sleep."


	5. Behold Her Heart

**Chapter Five:**

**Behold Her Heart**

Ravenne fingered the box the huntsman had brought her, debating whether or not to have the bungling man executed. He'd got the job done, certainly—but how on earth was she supposed to absorb Snow White's beauty if all she had was the girl's heart? His apologies had been profuse, saying that the girl had almost escaped, and keeping her from doing so involved, regrettably, spilling all of her precious blood. What was worse, the idiot panicked and dumped the body in the river. The populace would be hesitant to believe that their beloved princess had just disappeared. Naturally, they would jump to the worst conclusion—that it was the Queen who had her done away with. Ravenne sighed; when she took the post of ruling monarch, she'd had no inkling of how difficult it was to play to the masses. Well, she supposed she could just kill one of her numerous maids and have her face so mutilated. that she was unrecognizable. Yes—and she could proclaim to the land that it was a wild animal that had killed the dear princess. And of course she would have the huntsman executed for running away instead of defending the poor girl. Yes, that would work nicely….

She eyed the piece of meat resting in a scarlet pool at the bottom of the box, considering what to do with it. It wouldn't do her much good to bathe in, perhaps, but if she consumed the heart, she might still be able to absorb a little of Snow White's ephemeral beauty. She smiled wickedly; the people had always said the princess had a good heart.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The day after her arrival, Snow White offered to fix the dwarves a lunch to eat at their mine. Her offer was heartily accepted, accompanied by some confusing jibes at Robin concerning some sort of disaster and a squirrel. Apparently they didn't bother to keep any farm animals, like the palace did, and they got their meat from snares in the forest. She supposed they preferred mining to farming, but just the same, squirrel didn't seem very appetizing. She was forced to fix an entirely vegetarian lunch, consisting mostly of the meager lettuces that Cricket was attempting to grow in a weed patch behind the house. It made her very happy to think that she could be useful to her new protectors, as they were; she planned to start a real garden immediately, and perhaps get a cow and some chickens from the nearby town. She didn't know much about farming, as it had never been one of her duties, but she planned to give it her all.

As it was, she had packed a basket with her makeshift salad and sandwiches and hoped it would suffice for her first day of service. When the dwarves got ready to leave for the day, she handed the basket to one of the dwarves. "Here you are, Cricket."

The dwarf accepted the parcel with a sigh. "Thank you very much, but I'm Hedgehog."

"Oh—Hedgehog, right." She frowned for a moment, trying fruitlessly to affix the dwarf's face and correct name into her mind. But as he had no especially salient features to distinguish him from his brethren, she doubted she would remember.

As the next dwarf approached the door, she hastily tried to recall his name. It was only polite, after all—but it was so difficult! "Have a good day… Robin?"

The dwarf smiled at her gently, which surprised her a little because he was the fiercest-looking of all the dwarves. "I'm Fawn, my dear, but thank you just the same."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she mumbled, blushing. She'd been certain he was Robin. But as she studied him further, she realized that he should've been easy to recognize, because of his unusual height. _Fawn is the tallest_, she told herself, trying earnestly to remember. _Fawn—tall. Right._

As the rest of the dwarves filed out, she refrained from hazarding a guess at any more names. It was terribly embarrassing to mix up the names of her generous protectors, and if she kept it up she feared they might regret inviting her to stay. But she wasn't worried; she'd learn. In fact, she decided, she'd spend all of today getting their names straight in her mind, so she could surprise them when they came home!

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Tadpole scowled as he trekked forth from the house, feeling very justified in his irritation with the worthless princess. How could anyone be so inconsiderate as to neglect learning the names of her benefactors? It wasn't as if they were getting anything out of her stay. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she'd lied about being able to cook and keep house. On the other hand, this girl didn't seem smart enough to come up with a lie, even a small one like that. No, perhaps she wasn't inconsiderate—she was just stupid.

"I can't believe you lot decided to keep her," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Cricket clapped his shoulder companionably as they marched along the path they'd cut through the forest. "Give her a chance, Robin. I'm your brother, and sometimes _I'm _not sure who you are."

"I'm Tadpole!" the offended dwarf snapped.

"See?" Cricket grinned.

Tadpole shook his head disgustedly and refrained from answering.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sunbeam lingered near the doorway as his brothers walked away from the house, having concluded that Snow White could do with some advice. She was a sweet girl, to be sure, but she was woefully ignorant, just the same. She wouldn't get in any trouble around the house, he supposed, but what if someone was to come to the door? It was a rare occurrence, but it couldn't hurt to warn her.

Snow White, broom in hand as if ready to start working the moment they left, gazed after the departing dwarves with a characteristic look of joyful innocence on her face. She looked perfectly natural standing the doorway of the cottage, seeming more like a particularly beautiful village girl than the princess she was. With a jump she noticed that he was still standing there. "Aren't you going too?" she queried.

"Yes, I am," he informed her with a small smile. "Listen, Snow White. The Queen won't be able to find you out here, and it's doubtful she's even looking for you at all. If I were that huntsman, I'd most certainly bring her back false proof of your death—for his own sake, if not for yours. But be careful of strangers. No one _should_ come by, but in case someone does, don't talk to them. Just get in the house and lock the door."

The princess smiled gratefully, and the force of her beauty left him with tears in his eyes. "Don't worry, I will. Thank you again from all your kindness." She paused uncertainly, then added, "Sunbeam?"

The dwarf beamed unreservedly. "Right!"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ravenne surveyed herself critically in the Mirror's depths. She didn't _feel _any more beautiful than before. She fancied that her lips were a shade redder, and her figure a little more voluptuous, but it could have just been her imagination. Perhaps Snow White's heart hadn't affected her at all. It was quite unfortunate. She hadn't ordered the execution for the huntsman yet, but her ire over losing such beauty was mounting, and she decided it was time she did so.

"Footman!" she called imperiously, never taking her eyes from the Mirror. There was no one in the land who could possibly match her great beauty…. She rarely thought of anything else; suppressed were the memories of the days before Satan had come into her life. She could not bear to think that she had ever been anything less than the loveliest woman in the entire world. A thought occurred to her to explain why Snow White's heart had not affected her: perhaps she had reached the limit for worldly beauty, and could not conceivably become any lovelier. Her anger calmed somewhat at this conceited thought, and she generously decided to herself that she would give the huntsman a quick, painless death.

"Yes, my Queen?" the summoned servant questioned fearfully, bowing more than once.

"Send the order for the execution of the huntsman who let Snow White die," she instructed distractedly, still unable to drag her eyes away from the Mirror's image of herself. "Have him brought up to the courtyard within a half-hour." It would not do to attend a public execution in anything less than her most beautiful attire; the people needed to be reminded of just how great their queen was. A half-hour would be sufficient.

The man bowed again. "Yes, my Queen." He bowed once more for good measure and then raced off down the hall. Ravenne smiled slightly as his footsteps grew quickly fainter. It was such a lovely thing that everyone feared her so. The power she wielded was almost as great at her beauty.

The Queen had started to exit the throne room to prepare for the execution when she realized that she hadn't asked the Mirror her question for several hours. The execution, with its lengthy sentence and even lengthier explanation of Snow White's unfortunate demise, was certain to be exasperatingly long. It would be quite some time before she would be able to assure herself that she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.

Turning, she approached the Mirror again. "Magic Mirror, tell me do; tell your mistress, tell her true—answer me, obey my call: who's the loveliest of all?"

The Mirror usually replied right away, but this time a long moment passed before he spoke. At first Ravenne thought it was because the Mirror was just tired of giving the same answer; but when he spoke, it was _not_ the same old answer she received.

"Her skin's as pure as a brand-new snow;  
Her eyes set people's hearts aglow.  
Lips red as blood, hair black as night:  
The loveliest is… _fair_ _Snow White_."

Ravenne's smile faded somewhat, but she was not unduly concerned. It was obvious that the Mirror didn't know that Snow White had been dealt with. "Your answer is not up to date on current events," she informed him crisply. "Snow White lies dead in the forest. The huntsman brought me her heart." She gestured to the box lying on a table nearby. The heart was no longer inside it, of course, but the blood was still plainly visible.

She could swear she heard the Mirror chuckle.

"You were misinformed, o Queen;  
Snow White's still the fairest to be seen.  
A heart you consumed, 'tis true—  
But the heart of a pig that the huntsman slew."

The color drained from Ravenne's beautiful face. _A pig? It had been a pig's heart that she had eaten? _No, it wasn't possible; Snow White was dead. _But the Mirror could not lie_—so that meant the huntsman had tricked her.

Ravenne didn't wait around to contemplate this infuriating news. Enraged beyond coherent thought, she strode straight down the four flights of stairs to the dungeons, where the huntsman was being led out of his cell. The jailer halted as soon as he saw her, and watched, dumbstruck, as the Queen whipped a dagger from her sleeve and slashed it across the huntsman's face. Blood spurted from his ruined eyes, and the poor man cried aloud and fell to the floor.

Ravenne, breathing hard in her rage, raised the knife to stab the crumpled man. But at the last moment she controlled her anger and threw the dagger to the floor. "You—" she snapped at the jailer, who flinched and stepped back in fear. "Prepare the Mancuerda torture room; I'll see this man beg for death before I allow him to die."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ravenne sat in the back of the torture chamber, sipping a glass of wine and allowing her anger to by soothed by the huntsman's anguished screams. Mancuerda wasn't lethal, but it was one of the most brutal tortures in this lesser category. It would not do for the man to die before he revealed where he had hidden Snow White.

Blood coursed down the huntsman's arms as the torturer wound the metal cord around his misshapen arms for a fourth time. He dangled limply against the chains, unable to move, let alone support his own weight. He was lying facedown on the rack's blood-stained surface, with his arms secured behind his back; as the torturer finished winding the cord, the man let out a whimper. The cord was attached to a lever across the room—the torturer threw the lever, and the metal cord ripped through the flesh of the huntsman's arms to the bone. A piercing CRACK! informed Ravenne that one of his arms had broken as well. She closed her eyes and allowed the intoxicating sadistic pleasure to wash over her. Even if the man did not talk—which he would, eventually—it was worth it merely to see him suffer for the crime he'd committed against her.

"Again," she instructed the torturer, who nodded laconically and began resetting the lever. "Unless you'd like to talk," she offered the huntsman dispassionately. "I don't want you, I just want to know where Snow White is."

The man's empty eye-sockets stared up at her from his position on the rack. He said nothing, just sobbed disconsolately and shook his head, which Ravenne took to mean that he still refused to tell. Well, that absurd bravado wouldn't last long. "Mancuerda isn't working," she informed the torturer, reluctantly taking her eyes from the broken man before her. "Perhaps being strapped to a real rack will be more effective?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

King Gerald gazed at the portrait, completely mesmerized by the beautiful woman the canvas had captured within its depths. She sat regally on her throne, her dark velvet gown trailing over long, elegant legs and touching the marble floor with unmatchable grace. Her hair was a brilliant, golden russet, long and flowing, draped elegantly over her shoulders. Her skin was flawless, and paler than any he had ever seen before. Dark, arching brows framed a beguiling pair of olivine eyes, which seemed to flash in the firelight of Gerald's private study; they were beautiful, seductive eyes, that he could swear were laughing at him—as if she knew something he did not.

With difficulty he tore his eyes from the painting. Good God, if only a mere portrait of Queen Ravenne could have such an effect on a man, what must she be like in real life? Surely there could be no more queenly woman in the world! She was intelligent, mature, and thoroughly capable of managing a kingdom—just the sort of woman his son needed.

Gwydion was such a childish youth; perhaps with a sensible bride, he would become more responsible. And the sooner the better—the boy had become even more foolish of late, rambling on about some mysterious beauty he'd seen in the woods. He'd spent every minute of the past week searching for her, appropriating a large portion of the town's men to help him comb the forest for the girl. What utter nonsense! Even if this girl _wasn't_ just a figment of his son's overactive imagination, she was undoubtedly a peasant, and therefore unworthy of his son's attention. It was particularly irritating that, though the boy was now nineteen and undoubtedly the most skilled rider and swordsman in the land, he didn't have the brains to see the absurdity of his infatuation. Yes, he definitely needed someone like Ravenne.

It was for this reason that he had summoned Gwydion to his study this evening, so that he could explain this situation properly. The boy wouldn't like it at first, he knew; Gwydion had been so insolent as to protest the summons, completely obsessed with continuing the search for the imaginary girl that had infatuated him so. But if Gerald laid out his reasons, he was certain that the boy would see reason.

King Gerald looked up as the doors to his study opened to admit Gwydion, who looked rather sullen and, as had become quite usual lately, very dreamy and distracted. "You wanted to see me, Father?" He was a strong, handsome boy, and Gerald unconsciously swelled with pride, thinking that there was no way Ravenne could ever refuse to marry the boy. Even though his usually cheery, lighthearted countenance had been momentarily replaced by dreamy longing for his mysterious girl, the boy still held the same steadfast strength in his stance, seeming like one of the god-like heroes of the old myths.

"Yes, I did," Gerald replied; he gestured to the captivating portrait propped up on his chair. "Look at her, my son—is she not the most beautiful woman that has ever graced the Earth's humble surface?"

Gwydion glanced at the goddess in the painting and shrugged blandly. "I suppose so."

The king scowled, furious; he'd been certain that Ravenne's beauty would dispel the boy's ridiculous infatuation. "She's a very capable queen," he informed his son tersely. Perhaps the boy realized that beauty alone did not guarantee that his bride would make a good ruler. That was very wise of him. Gerald thought for a moment about his brief trip to Ravenne's kingdom a few weeks ago, unsure of what would impress his son the most.

"Her citizens never question her decisions—she rules with absolute authority." It was probably true. He hadn't actually observed many peasants on his trip. Then he remembered about Ravenne's tax system. "And," he added, "she has devised a very efficient system for collecting taxes, so that no corrupt collectors can charge a family twice or take some for themselves. In fact, I'm thinking of adopting her system for our own kingdom of Daventry."

"That's wonderful, Father," Gwydion said, rather blandly. "I'm glad our citizens will be further protected from corruption."

How could this boy think about peasants when he had just been offered a chance to marry such a rich, beautiful queen? "Ravenne would make a much better ruler for Daventry than any penniless peasant girl," he pointed out, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Who knows, perhaps she would consent to a union of our two kingdoms. That would do us quite a bit of good in keeping the northern barbarians at bay, don't you think? They wouldn't dare attack such a powerful nation."

Gwydion, who had been staring absently out the window to the forest beyond, turned back to Gerald, seeming very wearied. "I'm sorry, Father, what did you say?"

King Gerald had finally had enough. "You _will _marry Ravenne," he commanded angrily. "So you can just stop thinking about your imaginary peasant girl and start packing your things—you're going to Sancerre tomorrow to ask Ravenne for her hand in marriage."

He turned to study Ravenne's portrait again, and was therefore quite unable to see the spark of furious obstinacy that flared in his son's ice-blue eyes.


End file.
